Cumaholics Anonymous
By
Peter Cox Dickson
The following is a literary fantasy for people aged 18 or older. While some of the details involve real places, the characters are the creation of imagination. This is the author's first submission to the Nifty Archives. Thanks for taking the time to write in.
All sex on the phone or in fiction is drug and disease free. However, don't forget to practice safe sex in your real life.
The author reserves all rights. If you share the story with another reader, please include the author's name and email address.
This is my first story for Nifty and I love your feedback.
Chapter 4, First Meeting-Coffee Break
During the break everyone got up to stretch his legs. There were two coffee makers on a side table. A black Gevalia carafe used for heating water for tea drinkers and a white, traditional Mr. Coffee. It was a relaxed jolly gathering. People obviously had known each other for sometime and seemed like friends.
I opted for coffee because that was where Pablo was headed. The fragrance of the coffee was very pungent, fresh brewed and concentrated, not the jar of instant popular with other Center groups. Pablo was drinking his black, as he was from Brazil I surmised. He didn't move away as I started to pour a cup and when I finished he held up a quart carton and asked, "May I offer you some cream?"
This time it was my turn to smile wryly and lick my lips. I held out my Styrofoam cup for him to pour. I looked into his pale green eyes-they were lit from within like cabochon emeralds on a Faberge cigarette case. His nose, not Roman statue Aquiline, had a small, but adorable, hook giving his face a mischievous boyishness, rough and tumble, as of one willing to take chances at games, extreme sports-or possibly love. His hair was incredibly thick, grey, nearly silver, short, and in a manly cut that was quite old fashioned, foreign, barely parted on the left side, and with a small curl like a comma in front. His skin was clear, smooth, and a rich olive color. I stared at his beard-I've known for a long time that facial hair is my primary fetish-followed by foreskins. Pablo's beard was recently groomed but not five o'clock shadow short and followed his jaw and aligned with his thick Adam's apple explaining his resonant and seductive voice. His bristly moustache perfectly outlined his moist masculine lips and dazzling smile and seemed to draw attention to the slight space in his front teeth. He was truly handsome. I wanted to rub my beard against his and surprise him with the softness of it and kiss him, my moustache joining with his so that we'd have to peel ourselves apart carefully like two pieces of Velcro.
My heart thumped in my chest and I felt a warmth suffuse my body, particularly in my arms and in my groin. My biceps tightened into strong muscles that stretched the sleeves of my t-shirt. A deep breath filled my chest and I could see my hardening nipples pressed against the soft cotton of my shirt. My nipples always signaled when I was feeling good, when life was in flow. This was invariably the case when a class was going well and students were tuned into a lesson or when I allowed myself to be surprised by strong emotion. My nips performed reconnaissance for my unconscious and their beams were turned on Pablo's broad shoulders, strong pectoral development, and flat belly. His thick thighs accentuated the long curve bulging along the entire fly of his 501's, emphasizing his confidence and cockiness.
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to be on my knees taking his proffered cream!
My senses were heightened. The room suddenly was saturated with light, as though a half dozen halogen bulbs had been switched on brightening all colors and turning up the volume on the sounds. Pablo and I were standing close enough for our shoulders to brush. I seemed to have entered his aura, or, at least, had lost the need for the telephone booth of privacy in which I normally surrounded myself.
As I started to respond, J-P called to Pablo, "Em meu último vôo eu trouxe para trás o café de Brasil." Pablo responded in English, I thought for my benefit, "How kind of you to be thinking of me, Jean-Pierre, to bring back coffee from my homeland."
Before I had a chance to speak, we were jostled by the nearby crowd of coffee drinkers whose attention had turned to the door.
Standing at the room's entrance was a recent Playgirl magazine man of the month.